by Toni-Lyn Sorger

I stepped into the little café. It was the closest one open so early in the morning, and I needed a decent breakfast before going on my little expedition. Maules was quiet, slow, and peaceful, especially in the morning. So, when I was the first in line, I wasn’t surprised.

I ordered alpkäse biscuits and a coffee, brushing my black hair away from my face. He rang me up without a word, and soon I had a hot cup and biscuit in my hands. I stepped into the cool morning and devoured my biscuit, sipping on the coffee as I walked through the city. Maules really hadn’t changed much. I was born here and spent much of my childhood in an orphanage, though I must have had a family before that. I was used to being alone in those years. I was adopted by an American family in my pre-teens and haven’t been back since. I’m now twenty-five, a fresh detective in the States, and hoping I could use my training to find a guy I met as a child. I shook my head and continued down the road.

# # #

It was my tenth birthday. The workers at the orphanage were nice, but it felt like they were just being polite when they asked what I wanted for my birthday. It was just the thing to do. I managed to convince them to go to Friborg Forest. We didn’t go there often, but I loved it. The trees looked like they went on forever, wildflowers would grow along the walking paths in all colors, and it was quiet, private. It was something I couldn’t get at the orphanage. I was distraught when the caretakers invited the other kids.

Admittedly, I was a strange child. When I tried to play with the other kids, I ended up scaring them off because I’d insist the prince had been gruesomely killed or the patient with a tummy ache had a parasite eating her organs. I suppose my choice of career was informed by it a bit. You can talk about viscera and horrible circumstances as a detective, and no one in the office will bat an eye.

The sky was cloudy that day, so we were only allowed to play for a little while. The older kids were tasked with helping the caretakers keep an eye on us little ones. Instead, they tried to impress us with how far they could throw rocks, how fast they could run, and how high they could climb the trees. I got bored after ten minutes and snuck off onto the trails. I pushed through some bushes and started tiptoeing down the dirt path, listening carefully for any sign that someone noticed my absence.

When the squealing and laughing grew faint, I went down the path skipping and running, just relishing the time I had alone. My pigtails bounced behind me and fluttered more with the periodic gusts of wind. It seemed like I had been going down the path for almost half an hour. I couldn’t even hear the voices anymore. No more yelling. No more screaming. No more complaining that I wouldn’t play with the other kids despite the reluctant grimaces.

“Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me!” I started singing.

As I finished the song, someone stepped off an adjoining trail and paused. I think it was a man, though it was hard to tell because he was covered head to toe. Looking back, I recognized the outfit, but I had no clue at the time. He looked like he was plucked off a World War II battlefield. The black uniform hung loosely over his frame, and a camouflage cape draped over his shoulders down to his boots with a matching cap on his head. His two most striking features though, were his size and face. He looked as big as the trees. And his face was obscured by an old-fashioned gas mask. He held a bouquet of wildflowers in his arms, a harsh contrast to his dark ensemble.

I should have been terrified. My heart should have been racing. My legs should have been aching to run. But I just tilted my head to the side. He mimicked my gesture the way the caretakers did with the babies. I so wanted to reach up and touch his mask, to see what was under it. We were taught to fear strangers, but this one interested me so much. He knelt and tried to speak. His voice was raspy and hard to understand through the mask.

“You … singing?” he asked.

I nodded. He looked at his flowers, hand hovering indecisively over the rich arrangement. Eventually, he settled on an Edelweiss. They’re white with fuzz on the petals, my favorites.

“Happy … birthday …” He reached out to hand me the flower.

“Thank you!” I beamed as I took it.

I heard footsteps coming up behind me. The man stood up, tipped his hat, and disappeared into the path he came from. One of the caretakers came running up to me as drops of rain started hitting the ground. She knelt and roughly grabbed my shoulders. She actually looked worried.

“Ehlii, what were you doing wandering off?” she scolded. “Who was with you? I thought I saw someone standing here. What have we taught you about talking to strangers?” She looked around.

Even then, I had a feeling this encounter had to be kept secret. I lied. There was no man. The caretaker grabbed my wrist and dragged me back to everyone else just as the rain started.

The next week, I saw the man on the news. People were encountering him on the trails and started calling him “Le Loyon.” Newscasters were warning everyone to stay out of the forest while the police investigated. I watched the interviews – how witnesses were frightened and disgusted. They called him a monster and wanted him dead. I started crying. Why was he so bad if he didn’t do anything wrong? The caretakers tried to comfort me, turning off the TV and promising I’d never see those pictures of him again. I felt even more out of place. If people feared a dressed-up man who did nothing, what did that say for me? When my adoptive parents came, I felt accepted, but I couldn’t quite shake that feeling.

It had only been by accident when a fresh story about Le Loyon wound up coming across my news feed a few years ago. Many European magazines published the suicide note, and people believed he committed suicide. No body has ever been found though. I hadn’t thought of him for years, but after that, I couldn’t get him out of my head. However, I couldn’t manage a trip to Switzerland until now.

# # #

I pushed through the doors of the police station. A young officer asked for my information and pointed me in the direction of the detective’s office. I knocked on the door and was let in by an older man with a trimmed mustache who introduced himself as Detective Helffgott. We exchanged pleasantries and sat across from each other at a round table in the corner of the room.

“I have to say,” he began. “When you first contacted me about this one, I was a little surprised.”

“I’ve been interested in similar cold cases since my academy days, so I wanted to pick your brain.”

He nodded and handed me the first official report. “Not sure how much you’ll learn from it. The media pretty much covered everything except exact locations: strange man wondering around for a good while and suddenly leaving a note. Haven’t had any word on it since.”

“The news never mentioned any violent encounters. Were there any?”

“Not one.” Helffgott leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, from every report, it seems he completely ignored everyone. At first, we had to warn people as a precaution, but most of us believed him to be harmless.”

I nodded and turned my attention to the map on the table. He had marked and dated every reported encounter and the location of the note and clothes. They were clustered together. He explained they never found anything around the locations. He handed me a copy.

As I studied it, he pulled out two bags. The first contained the clothes Le Loyon wore. The suit, boots, cape, and gasmask were carefully folded and wrapped together. The second sealed away the letter that was left with the garments. It was handwritten in French with a rather graceful hand.

I read the note carefully.

Death certificate and testament of the Phantom of Maules

Dear Patrick du Matin, not only are you a moron but you are above all an assassin.

You murdered a very harmless being, who found, in his walks, a real therapy of happiness, a cerebral resourcing allowing him to face the responsibilities and the vicissitudes of his “normal” life and he had some!

The ghost cannot explain this happiness, but you do not seem to know Sacher-Masoch; you will discover that it takes everything to make a world.

Then you are an assassin of freedoms.

To hear you, we find ourselves in the Middle Ages, at the time of the witches. Why don’t you rise up against the little toads, helmets and hoods, dressed in leather, who backfire on their motorcycles, in these same forests, them in violation!

Do they take the time to meditate in front of the little Oratory, to ask for a better world? I terrorize children, make me laugh! Why are they not terrified by the horrors and the crimes, very real these, that they see on television, in the media?

Who is in charge of setting the Tolerance and Freedom button in this company? These beautiful notions benefit more dealers, pimps, burglars, rapists and hooligans!

Switzerland is small, anything that is not in accordance with the garden gnome must be eradicated. I thought, during these years, while I was always left alone, until you, that these feelings were evolving, you gave me the opposite proof, unfortunately.

The Phantom disappears, the risk of a Beast hunt is too great. It will come back to haunt the narrow minds of your kind, for ultimately a ghost never dies.

To the amiable walker or mushroomer who will discover my tinsel: Deliver this letter to Mr. Syndic or Vice-Syndic, or even to a journalist, capable however of discussing Freedom and Tolerance.

“What’re your thoughts?” I asked.

Helffgott shrugged. “I believed it was suicide at first; I’ve seen enough of the letters to recognize it. But we never found a body. I’m not a profiler, but he doesn’t seem the type to just slink off and die in secret. No, I think he gave up on this ‘therapy’ and rejoined society.”

I nodded. If the letter was the only thing to go off of, I would’ve guessed a career in the arts to suit him best. I gestured toward the clothing. Helffgott unwrapped them and handed the bundle to me. It was just as I remembered it, but looking at it so closely puzzled me. Everything was covered in dirt and grime. The cape and suit had tears and holes with chunks of fabric missing. The boots were practically falling apart with the soles detaching and laces missing. Finally, I examined the gas mask. The one lense was cracked with the other missing entirely. It even seemed that moss was growing on parts of it.

# # #

I crested the last hill before the trails started. The trees shot into the sky. The dirt and leaves crunched under my feet. I studied the map Detective Helffgott gave me. There were so many paths, and I hoped I’d find the right one.

Holding the map up, I followed the trails. Deeper and deeper I trudged along. The sun brightened the paths. No wonder he liked it out here. Birds chirped and iridescent insects flitted about. The canopy was aglow, and flowers reached toward the sky. I breathed in the fresh air and the light smell of a past rain shower.

I continued through the woods. At each mark on the map, I stopped to examine the surroundings. It was a cold trail. In hindsight, I really should’ve expected that; it’s been much too long for any sign to still be around, and the area was heavily traversed. But I kept going. I kept searching until I came to the last mark in the middle of the map, far into the dense forest. After another unsuccessful search, I sat on a nearby boulder with my head in my hands. What on Earth did I really think I would find?

After I finished berating myself, I heard delicate footsteps approaching. I stood from the boulder and dusted myself off. I walked toward the sound since it was in the direction of the exit. This part of the trail had a steep slope to my left, so I walked carefully. I finally reached the source of the noise and paused. A pretty roe deer perked up and met my gaze. I stayed perfectly still, admiring her reddish coat and brown eyes.

Her ear flicked, and she turned her head away from me. Then she snorted and bolted toward me. I backed out of her way, catching my heel on a fallen branch and tumbling down the slope. Branches, rocks, and brush scraped my skin as I plunged to the bottom. As my decent ended, I bashed my head on the ground. Just as my vision blacked out, I caught a large figure standing over me.

# # #

The throbbing in my head made me groan and open my eyes. I stared at the wooden ceiling of a cabin. Cobwebs covered the rafters, shimmering from the light that was let in from the holes in the roof. A frayed rope was wrapped around one of the beams. I ran my hands around the worn wood underneath me and looked around. Dust and dead foliage covered the floor. I gingerly sat up and held my head.

“Good to see you’re awake.” A voice spoke in French. “May I come in?”

I turned to the doorless entrance. A tall man filled the opening to the cabin. He didn’t move. With the sun shining behind him, I couldn’t make out more than his bulky silhouette. Groggily, I nodded. He sat just out of reach, leaning on his knees to look smaller. In proper lighting, his features were more prominent. Curly hair and short beard, both lightened by the encroaching of silver hair. Dark eyes that still shone with curiosity. The most striking feature though was the scarring across his face. Long scrapes radiated from his left cheek bone. They were long healed.

“I apologize,” he said. “I had nowhere else to take you. I have no communication device, and it is a very long walk.”

“No problem,” I responded. “Thank you for helping, Mr. …”

“Jean Dupont …” He stared for a moment. “Pardon, but you look familiar. I remember a young girl that resembled you.”

My breath caught. “I … lived in an orphanage not far from here. We came out here once for my birthday a long time ago.”

He thought for a moment. “Did you meet a large man that gave you a flower?”

“Yes!” I shut my mouth quickly.

He smiled, genuine and wide. I couldn’t help but mirror it. He stood a moment and bowed.

“You’re Le Loyon? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I hope for a sensible reason.” He held his hand out.

“I just have so many questions.” His hand was oddly cold as he helped me stand. “You inspired me.”

He led me out into the bright sun and down a trail. He was forthcoming with all his answers. He studied literature in France before enlisting in the military. He was honorably discharged after a grenade blew up in his face. He then moved to Switzerland and became a hermit. After some time, he started his walks in his old military uniform. The rest is really history.

He asked about me as well. What life was like in the states. How I decided to be a detective. Eventually, we reached the entrance of the forest and stood in the warm air.

“I have to leave you here, Ehlii,” Jean said. “It was a great pleasure meeting you.”

“There’s no reason to  ̶ ” I turned around to an empty path.

I whipped around, searching for him. As I stepped back on the path, there was an Edelweiss on the ground. I picked it up and breathed in the earthy scent, smiling as I made my way to the hospital.